"Uncomprehend," said the Martian blankly.
"We're an all-Martian plant now," Huber said. "Even the front office will soon be all-Martian. The stockholders figure that the only reasonable thing to do is put a Martian in charge of everything. You were my recommendation, and the Board accepted it."
"But strange. You work job, do not?"
"If you mean it's my job, the answer is no. It's not my job any more. Oh, don't feel sorry for me. I want to quit. I just haven't been pulling my weight around here for the last year. I'm getting lazy or something, Chafnu. The whole idea of working bores me silly."
Huber went over to the musaphone and turned it on.
"Melancholy," he said, as the haunting phrases emerged from the loudspeaker. "That's the way I feel about working. You know something, Chafnu? Sometimes I think that damned tune has something to do with it!"
"Sir?"
"Oh, I know it sounds crazy. But somehow, the way I feel about working and the way that tune sounds—they're all mixed up in my mind. Oh, well." The boss picked up his suitcase. "The job's yours, Chafnu. So's the office. Both of 'em aren't the greatest in the world, but I had some fun."
He stuck out his hand. "Good luck," he said.
"Cannot," said Chafnu.